Heat
by Just Another Soul
Summary: The Russian Firebird is told to be a prize, coveted more than any treasure, but the quest for the Firebird is brutal, and the journey often leads to agony. Of course, the Firebird is a phoenix, and they do compliment dragons ever so well. A night with Hotel Moscow's finest would be well worth the endeavor. One-shot. Crack pairing.


**Heat**

Disclaimer: Black Lagoon and its characters © Rei Hiroe

* * *

Palm trees, neon lights, tuk-tuks and clusters of street vendors selling everything from local produce to straw fans to knock-off Van Halen T-shirts. Despite Thailand's relative crime rates, Bangkok always bustled and brimmed with more enthusiasm than Roanapur at night. The ill aura of the latter city never fully passed outside the bridge, and it showed. The mood change was not unwelcome, but uncertainty was never fond territory either. Despite being in the same country, this land seemed somehow foreign to them.

They rode in the back of a black Toyota Soluna. The traffic flowed slowly.

"The prices paid for anonymity over luxury ," he said. There was a tinge of sarcasm in the Triad's voice. The tone was disregarded.

"I've ridden in worse." The reply was sharp, to the point. The Triad raised an eyebrow.

"No complaints? I'm mildly surprised. I would have figured after being spoiled by riding around in a decadent capitalist Mercedes all these years was going to make you dour on this trip. Or is the suspension bringing back childhood memories of the proletariat class cars?"

"You have obviously never ridden in a Lada Riva or driven a Ziz." An unseen, mental shudder went up the Soviet veteran's spine at the memories. The distant glance remained. "I recommend you cease throwing rocks from your glass house. Last I checked, China severely lacks in automotive endeavors."

"This is true," he agreed. "Many items from the Mainland are shit, but I am from Hong Kong. They are two very different things."

"Until 2008."

"_That_ is a topic I find bland and will damper our evening."

No more words were said. He took out a cigarette and began to smoke.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

"A Chinese restaurant? In Thailand? Really?" The tone of voice was not sarcastic or even the least bit offended. The voice sounded more incredulous that the man would do something so redundant as to bring the two of them out of Roanapur and into an atmosphere they could have very well experienced while still in the wicked city.

"This is a fine establishment," he defended, "The food is nothing like Roanapur. It's close to home."

"For you," the Russian pointed out. "We may share a border, but cuisine is a separate dish altogether."

He opened his mouth, but was cut off.

"I anticipate a pun-related remark on your end. You're better off stopping right there."

And he did, until they were seated.

The décor seemed, to the veteran, like the interior of any other Chinese restaurant. The food, while it was good, held no special value, no sentimentality; why would it?

"You seem quiet," the Triad observed.

"What do I have to say?" said the veteran. "Whenever Hotel Moscow and the Hong Kong Triad occupy the same space, it's usually about business."

"And that's very rude in my culture."

There was an arched eyebrow in response.

"It's considered poor table manners to talk business while dining," the Triad informed with a slyness only he could conjure about the topic of dining etiquette.

The eyes rolled in mild annoyance, scar shifting ever slightly with the movement of a curled lip. This was what one got when they let their foes choose the neutral space. But they had agreed upon the conditions in advance. This was a place away from business, away from Roanapur, away from formalities.

They agreed it would be just them, and only them, for they seldom ever got time to, and with, each other.

But without business, or politics, there wasn't much to be said.

"You like birds?" he asked. It was a question of genuine curiosity.

"Hm? Why do you ask?"

"There," he pointed with chopsticks. "That portrait on the wall. You seemed focused on it."

"My mind was trained elsewhere." The statement was accompanied by the most minute of shrugs. "The painting happened to be in that direction."

"What a shame," he said. "I thought it interesting that you would have a fascination with a subject of virtue, the Fenghuang."

"I know nothing of what you just said."

_And I could care less,_ was the thought.

"Mythical birds," he said simply. "They're usually seen opposite of dragons. Dragons are powerful, aggressive, regal. The Fenghuang, the birds, represent grace, mercy, things like that. It's supposed to balance things out. I only thought it to be ironic if you were drawn to a portrait the exact polar of your disposition."

"You were mistaken."

"So I was," he admitted. Then he smiled. "So what do you have?"

"Have what, exactly?"

"What kind of bird do the Russians have?"

"We do not have fanciful jubilee birds like the Chinese."

Hopefully, the conversation would end there. It didn't.

"Nonsense, everyone has a bird. Wouldn't the Slavs or whomever occupied the country so long ago dream up their own phoenix?"

"We do not have a phoenix," the soldier said. "It's just a Firebird."

"A Firebird?" he asked. "And what does the Firebird represent?"

"It doesn't represent anything. It's just a story telling device."

"What kind of story?"

"It has bright feathers, bright like a bonfire, and they never went out after being plucked. The hero of the story would have to go on a quest to obtain a Firebird feather, and the journey for the feather of the Firebird would often cause more trouble and misery for the hero than the feather itself was truly worth."

"...And?"

"And there is nothing more to tell."

"Really, now?" he inquired. "No lesson about coveting something beautiful leading to ruin? No moral? Simply a bird that is chased and never caught?"

"Sometimes the hero got the feather, but as I said, he often realized it wasn't worth all the trouble in the end."

"That's a rather sad fairytale, don't you think?"

"No, it's just a Russian fairytale."

The conversation ended there.

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

Thoughts of business and politics were banned from the lands outside Roanapur, but the bedroom, no matter the location, was always a power struggle. Bodies thrashed in a dance to see who could undress the other in a swifter manner, who could pinion who down to the bed, or the wall, or the table, or the floor first.

This night, he was the victor, and _damn him_. Even in the moonlight of the dim hotel room, he still wore those awful sunglasses. If the hands weren't held on the bed, those hideous shades would have been gone by now.

Slowly, tenderly, he traced his lips along the scar on the cheek before they shared a kiss, rough and heavy and amorous. His mouth eventually wandered lower, paying attention to each individual scar, every mark, every curve, every inch of flesh until he reached the apex of the thighs. It was only then that the tension was cut and the room filled with moans.

After a series of incandescent intervals throughout the night, they were dressed and ready to leave. The time they had to themselves was coming to an end.

Before they exited the room, with the back turned to him, he reached out and placed a hand on the right shoulder.

"You know, I thought about that story of the Firebird, what you told me last night."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and I disagree with one point."

"And that would be?"

"With the business back in Roanapur, it's a challenge to play our distinct roles. We often know we may hurt each other as often as we benefit each other. I go through a hell of lot of trouble to get to you," he started, and leaned into the ear. "But I think you're worth it in the end."

Finally, there was a smile.

"Once we go out that door, we resume our respective positions."

"Of course," he said.

"Then allow me to say this before we go back." The Russian leaned in, not quite close enough to touch his lips, but close enough to feel his breath.

"We really should do this again some time, Biu."

"I would really like that, Boris."

**END**

* * *

**A/N:** Aaaaaand _you_ get brain bleach! _You_ get brain bleach! _You_ get brain bleach! _You_ get brain bleach! _Everybody_ gets brain bleach!

I'm so proud of myself. This is the first shounen-ai/yaoi fic I've ever done. I did the nonsensical, implausible crack pairing and everything!

What, you thought it was going to be Chang/Balalaika? Pfft. That dish is claimed by another author much more capable than myself. But I'm sure the _Kapitan_ and _Da Ge _would be very supportive of their right hand men.

I do hope you all forgive me, dearest readers, for leading you astray somewhat. I wanted to play around with word usage and see how much I could hint at something without giving it all away until the end. I probably failed, as you are all a most clever lot and were probably expecting something due to the lack of female pronouns. Oh, yeah, and that whole crack pairing label.

Nonetheless, if the brain bleach doesn't work, you can always look up cat videos on the internet to clean your mental palate.

Cheers.


End file.
